


Led To The Flood.

by etacanis



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Community: hh_sugarquill, F/M, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etacanis/pseuds/etacanis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Godric signs up before the draft comes. The draft gets Salazar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Led To The Flood.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mrecookies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrecookies/gifts).



> HEY BOO. Pretend you're surprised I was writing for you ;) For your prompt _keep it silent, keep it secret_. Uh, sorry about the ending? It wasn't supposed to be quite _that_ bad. I hope you enjoy it, boo ♥ It was the single most infuriating thing to write and I loved it. If nothing about the verse makes sense (TOO MUCH DETAIL TOO LITTLE TIME), lmk because you know I have mental essays about this stuff.

Godric signs up before the draft comes, a fit of righteous anger and fighting for what he believes in, the power to change, even though he knows he's just going to be another Private hung together with a training as quick as it can get. He spends time with his family, breaks up with the guy he'd been kind of-not really seeing and gets a _good luck_ in return. His mum cries for him when he leaves, his dad tells him he's proud,  _so proud_ and Ebba punches him in the shoulder. He's decent at duelling, he reminds them, pretty fucking great, actually, and he hopes they hold onto it like it means he'll be okay.

The draft gets Salazar, but they take a look at his qualifications and he's an officer, and he tells himself that's better, because he's further away from the line, he's just watching and waiting as someone else gets killed in a war he doesn't want to fight. He proposes to his girlfriend when he gets the papers, marries her three days before training, and all because he might have it easier, with someone waiting for him. He tells her he loves her, holds her in the night and kisses her goodbye and engraves _Helga_ on a circle of metal to wear with his tags.

 

When Salazar meets Lance Corporal Gryffindor, he doesn't know what to think. He's smiling despite bruises blooming on his face, on the edge of laughter while the soldier who punched him stands beside him scowling.

"He was disrespecting the female soldiers," Godric says, hastily tacking a _sir_ onto the end of the sentence at a glance from Salazar. "'cluding Captain Ravenclaw."

A fight should get them both latrine duty, should have them both in _deep shit_ as the aforementioned Captain Ravenclaw would say, with a ridiculous smirk on her face, but there's something about Godric that has Salazar not quite wanting to punish him. Maybe it's the fact he was standing up for something, an admirable trait if nothing less. Maybe it's the way the other guy - Private Smythe - looks like a prick. Maybe, and hopefully not, it's a little bit of Sergeant Anderson's training from the Academy left over, a little bit of favoritism and a lot of picking on the lower ranks.

"Smythe." His voice is a little too sharp, perhaps, but it keeps the man from looking him in the eye. Godric has no such qualms, he holds his gaze, lets his eyes track Salazar when he looks away. "Latrines. Gryffindor, the British Army refuses to adopt the more useful wizarding communication systems and so I need a runner. It won't be fun, it'll be tiring and you'll have to learn to handle the Major with kid gloves." Godric's struggling not to smile, Salazar can see it in the way his cheeks twitch. "Dismissed," he snaps. They both turn, sharp and flawless, but Godric lingers in the doorway.

"Thanks, sir," he says, his voice hush like he's sharing a secret.

"Report for duty tomorrow." Godric salutes and his boot heels clatter away down the corridor. It's ridiculous, perhaps, to assume things based on such a first impression, but Salazar thinks that Godric might just have the most potential out of any of the soldiers struggling to fit into the barracks.

 

When Godric isn't running across the base, ferrying letters and notes and crates that he's not even allowed to look in, when he's just sitting in Salazar's office, legs crossed on top of the spare desk, his wand twirling through his fingers, Salazar feels him watching. He looks away when Salazar looks up, stares at the wall or glances down at paperwork on the desk and never says anything, but the moment Salazar goes back to what he's doing, Godric starts watching again.

He doesn't know what it's about, doesn't know why but occasionally he catches Godric at it, catches his wide eyed expression, the almost-a-smirk expression on his face.

He keeps his eyes averted.

 

"Lieutenant," Godric says, one Thursday. It's hot and humid, rare for England even through Summer, and sweat is beading on his forehead. There's a pile of things that need to be taken to the Major that he seems to be ignoring for the moment, but Salazar can't blame him for that. There's a pile of forms on his desk that he's ignoring too. "D'you know where we'll be shipping to?"

"I've had no orders related to shipping out," Salazar says, fully aware of the pedestrian traffic passing under the open window. With a lazy flick of his wand, it closes, shutting with a snick that rattles the panes. "But it'll likely be Spain. I know that's not something you want to hear in this heat."

"Well," Godric says, tucking a folder under his arm and hefting a crate of supplies in the other. "At least I can work on my tan."

 

Captain Ravenclaw takes him aside a month into Godric's tenure as runner, her hand tight on his wrist and an eyebrow cocked before she even begins to talk.

"Lieutenant," she says, glancing back into the hall as she talks, more focus on the people walking past her office than Salazar himself. "Salazar, I know I can speak easy with you, as Rowena and not your superior. You'll understand that this isn't _an order_ , but a suggestion as a friend."

"Of course." Rowena nods, still glancing out into the hallway. She's trying to make this look like a casual conversation, he thinks, by leaving the door open. If it was closed, people would think he's being disciplined.

"The way you let Corporal Gryffindor off so easily from a fight raised some eyebrows, Salazar." She keeps her voice hushed, quiet. Footsteps echo past the doorway, and she pastes on a hasty smile. "I'd advise you not to look like you're playing favourites."

"I needed a runner," Salazar says. "And I didn't want Private Smythe."

"I understand that." But she doesn't, not really, because Salazar can see, knows full well, how much of a tenuous excuse it is, how little basis it has in reality. "Other people don't. I'm just advising you, Salazar." He takes a deep breath, there's no argument to be had here, not with Rowena, not with the Captain. She's got a point, after all. "It doesn't help that he's a wizard, Salazar, and Private Smythe a muggle. You must see how that looks."

"I do." He smiles too, tight and as friendly as he can get, still aware of the show for anyone who cares to look. "Thank you, Rowena, for your advice." Rowena raises an eyebrow at that, looks at him with her usual steely gaze before she nods, gestures at the door in the dismissal that it is. He doesn't salute before he turns. He doesn't let his thoughts linger on the discussion either, doesn't let himself think _it's none of their business_ and doesn't, most definitely doesn't, think that maybe he has a reason to be so defensive.

 

When Salazar gets notice that they're welcome to a weekend off, he doesn't tell Godric that it means they're shipping out soon. Instead, he makes sure Godric gets a floo pass instead of a train ticket and tells him to spend time his family.

When he appears in the living room of their cottage, trying in vain not to get soot on the rug, Helga is waiting for him, as beautiful as ever, her smile as bright as always and her eyes shining with, what he hopes are, tears of joy.

"I missed you," she whispers into his shoulder as he holds her in a hug. "It's too quiet in the house without you."

Being the wife of an officer has done her well, the cupboards are more stocked than most these days, her clothes are new and she promises him there's money to spare. She doesn't mention her sisters, both struggling, barely making ends meet - one husband only a private, somewhere in Africa, the other forced to work in a muggle factory - but he sees the letters on Helga's bedside table, sees the fresh tear marks on the parchment.

Still, she promises him she's happy, her hand held in his as they sit in their garden. The flowers are blooming, yellows and greens and pinks bright in the summer sunshine. All she could ask for, she says, is that he was closer by, free to come home more often.

He bites his tongue, and doesn't tell her they'll be leaving for Spain soon.

She asks about his life, so separate from hers now, and listens when he tells her about Rowena, about Godric, about all the soldiers, about training and how strange it is to live _openly_ with muggles, able to do magic whenever he pleases. She, in turn, tells him about her life, about teaching the magical children in the village, about the tricks they play on her. He knows she longs for a child, but she never asks. He doesn't know what he wants, but he knows that hurts her.

He leaves on Sunday, with a tub of freshly made biscuits under his arm and a stain of lipstick on his cheek. He leaves her money in a pot by a sink, scrawls _for your sisters_ on a scrap of parchment and tries not to think of it as an apology. He'll send a letter when he's back at the base, he'll act like he hadn't known they'd be going, tries to think of it as something for her instead of something for him, a reason not to watch her cry.

He kisses her goodbye, and doesn't think about how it could be the last time and really, shouldn't that bother him more?

 

The air is thick with heat, Salazar's skin prickles with it, his skin crawling and aching. He'd wanted to cast a cooling charm, had had his hand on his wand before Rowena had come up to him, whispered _no charms_ and _you'll suffer like the men do_ and he doesn't. He's watching Godric though, Godric and a woman with the blondest hair he's ever seen and they're laying in a patch of sunlight, stretched out like cats, and he thinks that maybe that order didn't quite trickle down.

He wipes his brow, scowls at the sweat patch on the cuff of his sleeve and tries to edge into the shade, what little of it there is. Across the tarmac, Land Rovers are roaring to life, soldiers throwing their packs into them before clambering into - or in a few cases _onto_ \- them. That gets Godric's attention, has him rolling up into a sitting position and squinting against the sun, his hand shading his eyes as his eyes scan the mass of people.

"Lieutenant!" he yells, when his eyes settle on Salazar, still hiding out in the shade. "Did Captain Ravenclaw let y'know I'm your driver?" He's clambering to his feet, bending down to help the woman next to him up before he slings his rucksack over his shoulder. He crosses the space between them quickly, moving into Salazar's space like he has no concept of _personal space_. The cool of his charms are radiating off of him, a blessing, the only thing stopping Salazar from moving further away from him.

"She didn't." His arm brushes against Godric's, and he's so cool it's , Godric should be shivering, but he isn't, he's just standing there, grinning, the same as always. Cocky and happy and glad about something nobody else knows. "I wasn't aware you knew how to drive. It wasn't on your file."

"I kept it secret, sir," Godric says. "But I overheard them mentioning you needed a driver and volunteered myself. They tested me back in Blighty and found I was _quite suitable_." His voice changes, he's clearly mimicking the Captain's accent, it's so different to his own. "It's you and me up front and we've got Olivia and George in the back like the kids." He gestures to the blonde woman, who's still standing in the sun, talking to a man with ridiculous muscles cording his arms. "They're muggles, sir, but they're nice."

"I'm sure they are." He glances at his watch, and _how_ is it so hot at only ten in the morning, and gestures towards the motor pool. "Lead the way, Corporal, I'm sure you know which vehicle is ours. I certainly don't."

"'Course." Godric lifts Salazar's pack too, slings it on the opposite shoulder to his own. "I've named her Ruby." He whistles, gestures for the other two - Private Niles and Geary, George and Olivia - to follow and sets off without even checking they are. "Well, isn't this exciting, Lieutenant? We're finally in the war."

 

Camp Devon isn't far from Malaga, it's close enough that the early morning air smells like sea. Most mornings, Salazar finds Godric sitting on crates, watching the sunrise, chain smoking through a packet of cigarettes he buys from the kiosk a few feet from the edge of camp.

"It's not so bad here," Godric says, one morning two weeks after they arrive. "It really is like being on a holiday. A crappy one 'cause I'm still getting up at four in the bloody morning and there's a lot of work to be done but-" He cuts himself off, squints at Salazar through the smoke curling from his cigarette. "I wouldn't be shooting myself in the foot to tell you that I've been sneaking off base whenever possible, would I, lieutenant?"

"I was already aware," Salazar says, tries to bite back the smile and shakes his head when Godric offers him his cigarette. "Nobody else is though."

"Malaga's a nice city, sir." He blows out a billow of smoke and leans back to stare at the sky, as clear a blue as always. "The people are friendly."

"You can call me Salazar." He says it before he really knows what's happening, the words spilling out of him in a mash of syllables. He doesn't take it back though, he _means_ it, doesn't quite want to identify why he's sick of hearing Godric call him by his rank, the same way he addresses everybody else. "In private, of course."

"Aye?" It's some sort of question, Godric's method of testing the waters, he supposes. Salazar nods, short and curt and takes the cigarette from Godric this time, takes a slow draw from it and puffs the smoke out in rings. "Well then, Sally, Malaga's a nice city."

"Don't push it," he murmurs as he passes the cigarette back. "You've got PT in half an hour."

 

During the day, they train. They run through maneuvers they all know well, they disassemble their guns and reassemble them and turn it into a game - blindfolded, one handed, blindfolded _and_ one handed. They do physical training and they swear at Salazar as he pushes them through their paces, forces to run harder and faster and makes Rowena stand by with giant bottles of water. They work on their vehicles, Salazar watching and trying to pick up what he can and where. They run through maneuvers again.

At night, most of them stay in their tents. They play chess, they spar, they bitch about officers and they talk about people they've left behind. They write letters and listen to the news. Godric sneaks out, dresses down as much as possible when all he really has with him are uniforms and PT gear, slips past whoever's on watch with a promise of the booze he'll bring back for them. Sometimes he takes a couple of people with him - Olivia goes a lot - but most of the time he stays by himself. Salazar doesn't think about covering for him, but he does it anyway, makes sure there are no officers by the gate at ten whenever he can. Rowena would have words for him if she knew, but he's good at feigning innocence.

 

It's on one such night that Salazar catches him sneaking back in. It's late - probably closer to three AM than midnight - but Salazar can't sleep, the air in the tent too stifling.

"Corporal," he says, keeping his voice low as he steps away from the tent, steps into the darkness that engulfs most of the camp. Godric snaps to attention, sharp and clear and very much sober. Salazar had never expected him to be drunk.

"Oh," Godric says when he catches sight of who it is. "It's just you. You're up late, Salazar." He steps into Salazar's space, fills it with the smell of cigarette smoke and aftershave. He's too close, the same way he's _always_ too close, crowding into Salazar's space, his essence mingling with Salazar's because there's barely a centimetre between them when Godric controls their space.

"I couldn't sleep." Godric doesn't say anything, just stands there and peers at Salazar like he's expecting anything. "I hate sleeping in the tents. _Loathe_ it."

"Fuck off." There's laughter in Godric's voice, softness. "You don't have to share with twenty fucking blokes." He pauses, shakes his head with a sigh. "All we need to do, Sal, is get the enemy into one of these fucking tents and gas 'em with the stench of twenty pairs of sweaty balls and we'll win this war." Salazar watches him, watches him bite his lip, watches Godric's eyes flicker and glance away. "You can go home to your wife and I'll go home to my dog and it'll be like nothing ever happened."

"You should be an officer with the ability to come up with plans like that," Salazar says at the same time as Godric's palm settles on his jaw. The skin is rough, the fingers calloused, and Salazar _knows_ that this is Godric's idea of warning the same way he, somehow, knows what's about to happen. He doesn't move away. He leans a little, lessens the height gap, bites back a gentle groan when Godric leans in, leans in and actually kisses him, hard and passionate and rough. He tastes of cigarettes, it's overpowering and almost awful but Salazar doesn't pull away, just kisses him back.

He stands there, feet on tarmac that'll be too hot in a few hours, in the middle of a war with a wife waiting for him at home, and he kisses his Corporal like it means nothing.

 

He feels like a teenager again, keeping a _relationship_ , a whatever the fuck this is, secret. He tries not to think about the fact he's sneaking off with a fellow soldier, a girl from the year above, tries not to think much about it at all. Godric always leads the way, acts like everything is normal and usual during the day, sneaks him away at night to hide in shadows. Sometimes they talk, sometimes it's like nothing ever changed and they're still two people who flout the normalities of rank. Most of the time, Godric pulls on Salazar's uniform, pulls him into kisses and clutches and that one, incredibly memorable for the wrong reasons, handjob six feet from Rowena's tent.

They don't talk about Helga or after the war. They don't talk about the war at all, even when the soundtrack to their nighttime is the sound of artillery in the distance, when the sounds of battle surround them. It hasn't touched them yet, and so it doesn't exist yet. The bruises and callouses from training mean nothing, they mean safety in the future perhaps, but nothing _tangible_ , nothing they can hold on to. Not yet.

 

It doesn't last long, the ability to pretend everything is far away. They roll out in their land rovers, crammed in with people and supplies and everything goes back to the way it should be. Salazar is _lieutenant_ again, Godric is corporal again, there's no secret smiles and hushed whispers because there's no time, nothing close to privacy. At night, they dig themselves graves and go to sleep, too bone tired to even try and stay awake. Salazar knows when Godric runs out of cigarettes because his fingers drum out an irritating rhythm on the steering wheel, his hands shake whenever he's not shooting his rifle. He barters the better MRE's he has for a few packets and slips them into Godric's pack and doesn't say anything.

Olivia takes shrapnel, nobody else is hurt at all, miraculously, and Godric talks her through the pain, rattles off bad joke after bad joke as George bandages her. The three of them sit in the shade of a cork tree, waiting for the cas evac helicopter and Salazar watches them, watches the way Godric presses his fingers to the pale side of Olivia's arm, watches the way his face lights up when she smiles through the pain. He doesn't wonder if he wasn't special. He helps them get Olivia into the bird, nudges at Godric in something almost like comfort and congratulates them on a job well done. Nobody takes Olivia's place in the car and George sits silent in the back, gun always on his lap.

 

It takes them weeks to reach Sagunto, a city supposedly only six hours from Malaga. They've crisscrossed the country - Salazar remembers Azuaga and the scar it left on Godric's arm. He remembers the quiet day they had in Ciudad Real, the only time he'd gotten to _talk_ to Godric in too long. He remembers the looks Rowena gave him in Jaen, the way she'd said _you need to shave_ and muttered _I hope you're doing okay_. Occasionally, he thinks on it like a road trip, a hemmed together map of Spain, the pins on locatiions in the shape of memories, but then he remembers the fire fight in Cartagena and _losing_ someone, properly, for good, the letter he'd had to write, outside Linares.

"Salazar," Godric says, breaking him out of his revery with a hand on his elbow. He hasn't heard his name in that voice since Malaga. It's been Lieutenant or Sir the whole way here, but now they're actually here, in a fucking _hotel_ and Godric's in his PT shorts and nothing else, no camis or boots or gas masks in sight. "Fucking hell, I didn't realize you could miss someone when you were constantly next to them."

And that sums it up, that sums everything up.

 

 

Six months after he arrived in Spain, Salazar wakes up. Godric's splayed out beside him, the bedsheets low on his hips, one arm stretched out to rest against Salazar's ribs, his head turned away from the open curtains and the sunlight streaming in. There's a bite mark on his shoulder, the perfect match to Salazar's teeth. Both of their uniforms are hanging on the wardrobe door, pressed and perfect and they're _leaving_ today. They're going home. Salazar's going back to Helga and he tries to rack his brain, but he doesn't know what Godric's going back to.

He gets dressed, quickly and silently and for the first time in longer than he'd admit, he settles the circle of metal around his neck. He sets the alarm before he slips out of the door and doesn't think of anything sentimental.

Six months after he arrived in Spain too, Godric wakes up to the sound of the alarm ringing and an empty bed. The bite mark on his shoulder aches, it's going to become a serious bruise that he's going to struggle to explain. His uniform is hanging on the wardrobe door, pressed and perfect and Salazar's already left. He's going home though. He doesn't think about what Salazar is going back to, because it's not him and he'd promised himself he wouldn't get like this.

He gets dressed, slowly and he doesn't care about silence. The door shuts behind him and the room is left empty, the only sign anything ever happened carried on a shoulder, rubbed raw by a starched shirt and that too will fade, soon enough.


End file.
